


A Secret Propaganda

by irridescentsong



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, First sexual experience EVER, M/M, Written in a journal, first person POV, holmescest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-04
Updated: 2012-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-30 14:39:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irridescentsong/pseuds/irridescentsong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock understood the physical aspects of what was happening to his own body. He had understood them for years, just never had any interest in dealing with the urges. And by interest, I meant that he didn't know physically what to do with them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Secret Propaganda

**Author's Note:**

> First and foremost this is HOLMESCEST. If you have issues or are squicked by incest (between two consenting adults), please leave. Second, this is on-going. I do not have an update schedule yet. Third, for legalities, Sherlock is 18. Also, Mycroft POV. These are his notes, written in a journal.

Sherlock understood the physical aspects of what was happening to his own body. He had understood them for years, just never had any interest in dealing with the urges. And by interest, he meant that he didn't know physically what to do with them. He'd push them away, wake up in the morning ashamed to find wetness in his pants, wash his laundry in secret (but that was no surprise, because he'd been doing that for years). It had begun to affect his behavior more and more prevalently over the past two months, three weeks, and six days.

I'd noticed him becoming more hostile, more aggressive (particularly towards me, but that wasn't a surprise either, because he'd been angry at me for six years, eight months, twenty-two days), and increasingly withdrawn.

On the day that I decided to seek him out, and tell him exactly what he needed to do, I found him furiously throwing laundry into the washer, cheeks a-flame over his embarrassment. He didn't say a word to me. I knew he felt my presence as clearly as I always knew of his. He closed the washer with a huff, and stomped off, but not before I could get a hand around his arm and yank him back.

"This has gone on far too long, Sherlock."

He, as usual, said nothing to me, just wrenched his arm away.

Or he rather tried to.

I held him steady and fast in my grip, trying to implore upon him to just  _talk_  to me. He would, of course, knowing him and his nature, would rather ignore me. By this time, I had had far too much of this insolent behavior.

I understood that he was upset with me - although, Mummy's death had nothing to do with me. I also knew that he needed to express these urges and feeling that he had been keeping bottled up, before he turned to alternative means - much like I did when I was going through the same changes in my life.

I stalked away, holding tightly to his arm, veritably dragging him behind me. He let out a squawk, and tried to dig his feet into the rug below him, but I just yanked harder.

He was going to learn, one way or the other, how to have a proper wank.

He got his feet under him quickly enough, off balance for no more than a second, but kept scrabbling at the hold on his arm, my fist closed around his wrist. The whole time he never spoke a word, just tried to pry my hand off of him. I couldn't understand why he had all this hatred towards me. I knew his anger was keeping him from speaking to me, but the  _source_ behind the anger was something I couldn't grasp.

Perhaps it was because I was 19 when Mummy died, and I knew long before he did that she was sick. She was so sick, and there was nothing I could do. I would've done anything for her, but in the end, there was nothing. I felt terrible that Sherlock never knew she was sick. Not until the very end.

It was, however, time to put those feelings behind us, and deal with the current situation.

At some point, he had given up on trying to get away from my grasp, and instead just followed quietly behind me, feet barely making any noise.

He followed me up the stairs, and cast a dubious glance on my door before I yanked him through it.

"Go sit on the bed, brother," I told him, releasing him from my grasp, and shoving him toward it.  
I took the chair at the desk, and threw a calm look toward him. His face was screwed up in doubt and anger, with a hint of trepidation. He was – afraid

.  
"I know you won't talk to me, so I'll just say what I have to say. I understand that you know what is happening to your body. You've known for years. However, what you don't know is how to deal with the urges your body is giving you. You need an outlet, Sherlock. You need help."

The look on his face clearly said that he did not need help, thank you very much, and I could politely kiss his arse.

"No, I will not be kissing your arse; yes, I will be helping you."

He raised one black eyebrow in my direction, and huffed a laugh.

"You may laugh, Sherlock. I know what it's like to not understand why you feel the way you do. I've been in your position before. Well, not your exact position, but you can appreciate the similarities. Your body needs release, Sherlock. It needs to be released from all the emotions and bitterness that it holds inside. All the grief that you've held over nearly seven years. All that pain, all the sorrow. You need to let it be released - or you'll never know what your world could be. You'll be stuck in this house, with your trapped emotions, and no one will be here to help you. I most certainly won't. If you refuse my help, you can get up and walk away. I'll even hold the door open for you."

He started to rise from the bed, but I held my hand aloft, to pause him.

"However, if you let me help you, you'll understand what it means to be free from your pain, Sherlock." I paused, then added, "I would very much like to help you."

He rose from the bed, and I rose from my chair, strode to the door, and opened it for him. He stood there in the middle of the space between the bed and the door, looking at me, consideration on his face.

He opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't form the words.

What would he say to me?

_Go to hell, you buggering arse? Fuck you, you meddlesome lout? You're a stupid git, go away?_

He dropped his gaze from my face to the floor.

"I," he started. "I need your help."

My jaw very nearly dropped clean off my face. I can honestly say I wasn't expecting that to be his response. I closed the door back, and locked it, strode over to him, and lifted his face to look at me.

The look that crossed his eyes was one still very much filled with hatredangerpainsorrowhurt.  
In it, though, I saw a glimmer of hope. Sherlock had hope that I could help him move past the pain and its associated emotions, and move him into the realm of feelsgoodhappyblissmoreplease.

Gently, and with enough warning for him to draw back away from me, I lowered my face to brush lips against his.

He was startled, but stood still, didn't pull back, let me kiss him.

It was soft, gentle, and polite. The time for impoliteness would come eventually, or so I hoped. With the impoliteness would come roughness, sharp words, and even sharper tongues. For now, the time was for gentleness and understanding. This young man, my brother, was severely handicapped in his social skills. I leaned in again, my lips to his, soft as fruit, and kissed him again, this time, opening my mouth over his, with just the slightest encouragement for him to do the same.

I put one hand in his downy curls, the other on his waist, drawing his thin body up close to mine. He opened his mouth under mine, and kissed me back, gently with trepidation apparent in his every move.

He knew it was wrong.

I knew it was wrong.

I just couldn't bring myself to see him in pain any longer. Almost seven years of repressed emotions had handicapped him to having the emotional intelligence of a child - something that he was rapidly proving himself not to be. He tucked himself further into my body, seeking comfort and solace from the rage of emotions warring inside of him constantly. I stroked my hand through his hair, and drew back slowly, so as assure him this was not rejection.

"Are you sure about this?" I asked him, just needing to hear his assent to what I was going to do to him.

He nodded succinctly, eyes clearer than they'd been in over seven years.

I drew back further from him, and led him by the hand back to the bed, and hoisted him up first, following him shortly after. He brought his face close to mine again, and weaved his fingers from one hand into my hair, playing with it. I closed the gap, and kissed him again, pushing slightly back on his shoulder so that he could lay on his back. He did lay backwards, and I moved over him, slowly, not breaking the kiss. I felt his tongue peek slowly out of his mouth, to touch my lips once, as a test of what was allowed and what wasn't. It surprised me. Should've seen it coming before hand, but I didn't. I was too caught up in the sensation of knowing him intimately unlike before. The bulge that arose in his trousers, however, was no surprise. He was a hormone-ridden teenager who had never gotten off because he'd been so emotionally repressed he'd never learned. At eighteen, he was just as unsure about his emotions as the twelve year old he never grew from.

When I dragged one hand down his torso, and across that lovely bulge in his trousers, his whole body arched into it, and he made a high mewling noise. I smiled softly at him. "This is what your body needs, Sherlock. It needs the proper attention to be released. You're lucky that your older brother knows exactly how to deal with this."

He gasped as my hand cupped him through his trousers, gently at first, just a touch, then harder, until he firmed all the way under it.

I lowered my mouth to his again, and when he opened his below me, slipped my tongue effortlessly into his, distracting him from my hand, which was undoing his trouser buttons and zip.  
I shuffled his trousers and pants from around his waist, raising the pants up and over his straining erection, and lowered them, pushing them off his skinny legs with one socked foot. He was slowly getting the hanging of the kissing before I freed him from his trousers and pants, but the sudden air hitting him shocked him back to reality, and he tore his mouth from mine.

"It's alright," I whispered soothingly, lowering my hand to touch him, finally lay hands on him, this source of all of his frustration. "You're alright, Sherlock, it's going to be fine."

He arched upwards immediately into my hand the microsecond I came into contact with him. I dragged my hand down his shaft, and lower to cup his sac. He began writhing on the pillow below me, his features screwed up. Looks of both pleasure and pain crossed his fine features, before settling on pleasure. I brought my hand slowly back up, and fisted it loosely around him, giving him an experimental tug.

It brought his body up to meet mine he arched so high.

"I promise you, Sherlock, this will feel amazing for you."

I tugged on him again, a little harder this time, and repeated it once more, then twice in rapid succession. Each time, his body gave a little bit more, and he arched high against me.  
I lowered my face and kissed his brow, his closed lids, his cheekbones, the tip of his nose, his mouth, then dropped to kiss against his neck, his collarbone, and his shoulders. I bit lightly at his skin, raising goose flesh in the path of grazing my teeth on his skin, and started to slowly tug on him.

"You can arch your hips up into my hand. It will feel good," I whispered against his skin, hoping that he would take the direction as a suggestion, not an order.

On the next drop and tug of my hand, he arched those pale hips up to my fist, and groaned.

"Thaaaaat's it," I crooned softly, lips brushing against his warm skin.

I moved my hand faster, and faster, hips arching to meet every upthrust of my hand, his breathing harsh with every move of my hand. It didn't take him long to arc from head on my pillow to his feet scrabbling on the bed for purchase, the rest of him in a taut long arch, with just those two points of contact with the bed. He spilled slowly and hot over my hand, as his body gave a long shudder, and he finally relaxed back into the pillows.

I raised the hand to my lips, and licked it slowly off. His eyes were closed, although I saw him peek out from one of them to watch me. I rolled from on top of him to lie next to him, propped up on one elbow, fist against my face.

He spoke first.

"I feel better," he said, his voice no more than a whisper.

"Good. You'll need to do that regularly to yourself to keep from getting emotionally compromised," I said lowly.

He nodded, and curled up on his side, facing me, the after-effects of his orgasm sinking into his body. When he was well and truly asleep, I snuck off to the shower, water and steam against my skin, the pounding of the water against the walls enough to muffle the shout I gave when I came. I toweled off after I got out, redressed, and slipped back into the bed, raising the covers around us. He snuggled into the curve of my arm, and I ran my fingers through his soft hair, watching in particular one curl re-curl every time I released it. I fell asleep against him, one hand in his hair, and could only hope in the morning that he didn't hate me.


End file.
